


Excerpts from the First Book of Hieron

by Shadaras



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Family Feels, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 20:24:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20494808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadaras/pseuds/Shadaras
Summary: None of the poems in this book were given titles by the author. For the purpose of this transcription and reprinting, each poem has been titled with a description of the blueprint upon which it was written, as they seem to have served as inspiration. Though we do not have the ability to reproduce the designs at this time, the reader is encouraged to contemplate the relationship between the engineer’s art and the poet’s.





	Excerpts from the First Book of Hieron

An Atrium, Vaulted

The arches of your heart encompass me.  
I echo in your spaces,  
seek your touch in iron and gold.

Your passages responds:  
_Here, here, here_,  
as if my voice was the beating of your heart.

A Dog’s Paw

We’ve walked endless roads:  
Nacre to the Isles of Flight;  
The University to Alcyon;  
and back to our old house,  
where a guitar welcomes us in.

How many hours have you spent  
rubbing my feet  
as we sat by the fire?

An Infant’s Sling

We carry our hearts outside of our chests now,  
though still pressed close to our skin.

He is a miracle, an inspiration.  
His smile lights up the room.

Every day he gives us a new joy.

A Gravity-Powered Shower

Drought or drowning, people turn towards rain:  
The promise of leaves unfurling,  
roots quickening, the first flower’s bloom.

A child laughs, splashing in the mud.  
Golden curls, brown fist made darker  
by the soil coating it.

Grandfather says,  
_This is how you protect seedlings_,  
and the child’s eyes are serious and wide.  
Calloused and baby-fat, both hands are deft,  
giving shelter until there is nothing left.

Under the porch we listen to the rain and watch,  
confident and content.

A Parasol

Sun-warmed apples  
taste of golden autumn.

Bright blue skies, sea-foam clouds—  
The leaves are not yet turning.

We walk on the sand,  
and do not watch the waves.

(If only our footprints could remain forever.)

A Spinning Wheel

I can spend a lifetime watching your hands  
as you turn iron into filigree,  
raw minerals into gemstones,  
a mountain into a home.

You craft like you breathe:  
Slowly, deeply, with only as much thought as you need.

Your hands comb through my hair  
and you tell me of your day as you braid it,  
just as carefully as you create any other work of art.

You spin my hair into a gilded crown  
with no thought for what I might rule.

(We both know:  
It is your heart.)

The Chemical Formula of Pencil Lead

Our hands are stained  
no longer black but gray.

Your hair silvers at the temples.  
They call it dignity.  
I call it worry.  
I call it stress.

But how can it be?  
Your smile is still the same when we come together,  
whole-hearted and full of curiosity and wonder.  
Your eyes still shine, just as bright as the suns you’ve forged,  
watching every shift of my fingers.  
Your muscles ripple and melt underneath my hands  
as you lift me and hold me tight.

Your dignity was never in question, my love;  
I took it from you long ago.

A Gauntlet, Bejeweled and Enchanted

You seek to shelter the world with your hands.  
A noble cause.

Underneath our feet are a hundred thousand  
souls or more:  
We scatter bones from the wharves as we sail  
in search of a way to hold the world fast.

Containing the wild only serves to make it grow,  
until perhaps one day it takes a man’s form,  
holds new life in his hands, and says:  
We’ll be together now, always.

Is that a dream?  
Or is it a nightmare?

The Tower

Each stone we place is another weight  
holding back the summer tides.

Is it possible to build high enough?  
Will the anchors survive a storm?

(We cannot go deeper;  
there is nothing but regret below.)

The stars gleam:  
A first spark of possibility.


End file.
